With every ounce of control he possessed he forced himself to stand still and to orientate himself. His breathing was harsh in his throat, his heart hammering loud and fast. He couldn’t afford to make a misjudgement. He couldn’t afford to spend time tearing away at rubble over the wrong spot.

It was now late afternoon and growing dark apart from the light from the fires raging farther down Unter den Linden and in Wilhelmstrasse. At his back, at the rear of the garden, were two birch trees and he scrambled over the rubble until he was in the same position in relation to them that, to the best of his memory, the steel hatchway was.

It lay beneath the outer limits of the collapsed building, deep beneath jagged masonry and bricks and slate, but not so deep that a squad of men with pickaxes and crowbars couldn’t clear it.

The problem was that he didn’t have a squad of men and he didn’t have even a single pickaxe or crowbar. Indecision tore through him. Hester was presumably quite safe in her temporary tomb. There was lighting and water and food. She would come to no harm if he were to return to Spandau for men and equipment. On the other hand, she would know she was trapped underground and would be terrified.

His decision made, he flung off his coat and jacket and launched himself at the rubble, heaving at blocks of masonry, hurling bricks away, choking on huge clouds of dust and grit.

‘Hester!’ he shouted, whenever he could spare the breath. ‘Hester!’

There was never any sound in response.

Up and down Unter den Linden there came the noise of fire trucks and water cannon, but they weren’t directed in his direction. They were directed at the public buildings that were ablaze and he knew the men manning them wouldn’t deviate to attend to a bombed house that wasn’t on fire and in which only one person was trapped.

With maniacal strength he kept on wrenching at jagged blocks of stone, burrowing farther and farther down into the debris, terrified that when he succeeded in reaching the bottom of it, there would be only bare earth; that the hatchway would be elsewhere.

When, in blood-red flickering light, he glimpsed sight of it lying beneath the remains of a statue of Hercules, he gave fervent thanks to the God he hadn’t prayed to since he was a child.

‘Hester!’ he shouted as he heaved and hauled at the broken marble head and torso. ‘Hester!’

With a last mighty effort he sent the heavy marble tumbling to one side and hauled up the hatch.

At first he could see nothing and then, as his eyes accustomed themselves to the blackness, he saw she was lying curled up in a comatose heap at the foot of the shaft.

It was then, as he slithered down the ladder to her side, that he knew what true terror was.

‘Let her be alive! Please God, let her be alive!’ he prayed like a mantra as he carried her to the surface over his shoulder, staggering with her towards the trees where there was still grass not covered by rubble.